Author - Chris Weagel
Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
Robert the Dancing Man has begun his annual visit to the streets of our fine town. His specialty is interpreting lovers' quarrels through dance. A quick scan of local church bulletins and Robert has enough material to carry him through Friday. He'll spend all week leaping across the car hoods, acting out the sobbing, the passion, the accusations, and the betrayal of popular power couples throughout the inland neighborhoods. Come next weekend, a chartered row boat will sail him past the lake front properties so that even the mighty may be shamed. It is hoped that such focus and exposure will stir up business for the therapy and steak house district which typically sees a lull this time of year. If you're in town, ask to see Robert's face tattoo. But don't give him any...
Big ol' troughs of cauliflower juice. Laid out on the floor. Bring em up with a gentle heat, right up to the edge of boil. Then cut it off. Nothing. Let it go cold. Now start snapping pictures. Landscape orientation, maybe portrait. These memories last a lifetime. Keep em safe from the flood by sleeping with them clutched to your chest. Not just the trough photos, though we both know their special value, but whole albums full of pictures of all kinds of juices. Cactus juice. Lemon juice. Mercedes Benz juice. All these juices poured out into troughs and let sit for years on the carpet floor. Take a guess which ones form a thick skin on top. Make a game out of it. Bring the family together. This is what you told the judge you wanted. Said it would be enough. All else is forgiven. Just...
The end of November is the time of year when one opens their mailbox to find its bottom filled with four inches of thick sour cream or marsh-mallow or just plain hot lather. The city has a boy come around with a ladle and lay it in during work hours. The result is at least a week of ruined mail. Unreadable, soggy, disintegrating letters, flyers and important papers. All unrecoverable and highly inconvenient. But we citizens voted for this policy. We supported it through two referendums. You can't say we didn't know what we were getting. Most people's thinking went something along the lines of, “I could really use some sour cream to finish this report but I don't want to go to the store in house slippers again, it makes my feet green.” Or, “These flyers...
The key to assembling a good daily lunch menu is tranquility. You don't want to offend or upset anyone. Lunch is one of the few meals that respects an eater's dignity. It doesn't require any costuming or condescending utensils. Self-administered ketchup is encouraged. And a Snickers bar or cigarette are acceptable desserts. If people want to eat from a fake red plastic basket, let them. You can hand them the food using a pool skimmer if needed. And so, taking into account the sensibilities and unpleasantness of our diners, I offer the following lunch time meal every workday and most even-numbered Sundays each month: Room Temperature Fish Pear Cup Hollandaise Sauce One can, Diet Sprite As I'm sure you've seen in your newsfeed, I serve this by gloved hand on single-ply...
In the mind of God. Sit there cutting up flowers, starting with the stem. Your two rugged hands pulling an endless rope. Chalking up boards and wiping them bare.You will realize one day that you no longer enjoy the things you enjoy. But you will continue with them, on and on. There is great comfort found in opening cans of vegetables only to pour them into new containers and quickly lidding them back up. It’s soothing to wear a little black mask all day. The kind that obscures the area around your eyes and hangs a tail down your neck. You’ll keep an open mind about computers even as they disappoint you. It’s best to write up your rationalizations for this type of life. Write them down each day and compare them to the previous day. Do this when doubt arrives, as it will...
Puppet shows and really expensive home appliances, like garbage compactors and water bed heaters, are what led the authorities to him. They brought about his eventual demise. Receipts for both items were key pieces of evidence. Just as important were the unfinished screenplays found in his airport locker. The stories generally speculate about individuals' reluctance to both publicly enjoy puppet shows and operate multi-loaf bread ovens in front of guests. They all also feature a male character named “Fran,” which can be confusing to certain audiences.
So far it’s been a catastrophe. Everything has come up ugly. And broken. We’ve gone ahead and put all our effort into this enterprise and clearly, it hasn’t been enough. We planned and planned. We could tell you the exact moment, down to the minute, when children around here would start sprouting antlers like ginger deer, all thanks to our doings. We had all the numbers, everything. We had Pappy here who’d do a little dance when the numbers got stuck. Just there in the corner, without any music. And he’d come up with the fix. Pappy done a fine job. Never in doubt. We were sure folks would love to pay us a little money every time they had a happy thought. And give us an extra nickel if it came in blue. We had tried it. Tested everything out repeatedly. Tested...